The London Season Pride and Prejudice Continued
by Vixenne Victorienne
Summary: Elizabeth Darcy as the talk of Society


So, Elizabeth and Darcy are married. What would Lizzie's first foray into the ton be like?  
  
The characters of the Viscountess Clarendon, the Marchioness of Hawthorne and the others are my own creations, and I thought it would be fun to bring Jane Austen's most romantic couple into my world to play. Elizabeth Bennett, Fitzwilliam Darcy and Lady Catherine belong to Jane Austen, but I think she would approve.  
  
After all, one needs friends to survive a season in London.  
  
Oh, and Lady Clarendon's first name is pronounced 'Anghara'. The 'd' is silent. An Irish Viscountess deserves a thoroughly Irish name.  
  
".If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?  
  
Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennett, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends, if you willfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us."  
  
"These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine."  
  
Chapter 56, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen  
  
The London Season - Pride and Prejudice Continues  
  
Lady Angharad de Burgh, the Viscountess Clarendon (no relation to the Lady Catherine, a fact that both ladies were most thankful for), sat in the elegant drawing room of Almack's Assembly Rooms, sipping upon weak cold tea and fervently wished that she and Crispin had forgone the Season.  
  
Thoroughly and utterly bored, surrounded by the tedious crush of hopeful mamas, dutiful daughters, and the Pinkest of the Pinks, she smiled graciously when addressed and responded in kind when complimented upon her gown of cornflower blue with its contrasting under dress of pearl gray, cut daringly at the bodice and trimmed with satin rosettes. The short puffed sleeves were slashed, with the same pearl gray insets, which matched the long satin gloves.  
  
There was no sound reason for her to be in attendance. The prime social function Almack's served was to introduce young women of quality to eligible men of wealth. Of course, entrée into Almack's was also indicative as to whom the seven goddess-like patronesses favoured, and whom they cut direct.  
  
This unenviable situation was made slightly more bearable knowing that her husband Crispin, Viscount Clarendon was due to join her shortly, having made plans to dine with old friends Carlton and Tennant at White's, as well as assurances of her friend and boon companion Dolabella that she would also make an appearance.  
  
When addressed by those around her, Angharad smiled tightly, yet graciously as she tried to remain interested in her surroundings.  
  
She was flanked from the sides between the Misses Talbot and Pendergrast, two beautiful and rather empty debutantes, obviously enjoying the crush of their first Season. Both wore white, which clashed terribly with their sallow complexions, thin lips, and pale blonde hair. They held onto their dance cards tightly, hoping for permission from Sally, Lady Jersey or Mrs. Drummond Burrell to engage in the quadrille with their respective beaux.  
  
Moments later, in waltzed Lady Dolabella Amberleigh-Tylgerth, the high-spirited Marchioness of Hawthorne.  
  
As was her usual, Dolabella was clad in fashion of the first stare, her emerald sarsanet gown causing her blaze-coloured hair, styled a la Greque, to stand out like wildfire. Conversation ebbed and flowed as the ravishing Lady Hawthorne swept through the room, parting the crush in her wake.  
  
"Deuced lucky man, that Tylgerth," Angharad heard a gentleman exclaim to his friend.  
  
"'Pon rep, a rare beauty that, and a wild one," replied the other with earnest. "I daresay the task of taming her would be an arduous one. I believe I shall stick to my beautiful steppers, thank you very much."  
  
Dolabella spotted Angharad immediately and made her way over to her, completely ignoring everyone else. She did not even pause in this task to acknowledge the presence of Lady Jersey, which was duly noted and remarked upon by all and sundry. This behaviour surprised very few, for all knew that Lady Hawthorne, in terms of wealth and lineage, was quite high in the instep. She saw no problem snubbing anyone she found distasteful, even if that someone wielded the power to utterly ruin those who displeased her.  
  
The Misses Talbot and Pendergrast hastily removed themselves to the Supper Rooms, greatly fearing the appearance of the beautiful Viscountess would lessen their chances for matrimonial bliss, to which Angharad gave silent and grateful thanks to whatever benign deity had responded to her prayer.  
  
"My dear Angharad, my sincerest apologies for being late." Dolabella sat down gracefully, spreading out her full skirts, opened her reticule and removed an ornate fan from its depths. "You look incredibly bored. Have none of the Corinthians here asked for your hand in the reel?"  
  
"I fear that my mood has not been conducive to dancing," Angharad replied, setting tea and saucer aside. "I am thoroughly bored, having heard nothing of interest spoken in this hallowed of places, save for more inane gossip concerning Fitzwilliam Darcy and his new wife."  
  
Dolabella's green eyes widened in mild surprise. "It has been nearly one year since he and said Miss Bennett were wed. You cannot mean to say that no other on-dits have taken over their interest?"  
  
"You know as well as I that it is her lineage which remains the topic of such discussion, as if none of these silly widgeons could not trace their ancestors to humbler beginnings."  
  
Dolabella chuckled at this. "Everyone is well aware that the Amberleighs of Staffordshire were for the most part pirates, lechers, gamblers, and all-around rakehells. My great-grandmother Constance supposedly poisoned her first husband in order to marry my great- grandfather, Sir Philip. And I am more than certain a few base-born Amberleighs are making a decent living in trade."  
  
Like a pair of elegant swans, the two of them craned their necks as they heard a gasp of shock from behind. Another young woman, upon hearing Dolabella's scandalous speech, coloured up with embarrassment.  
  
"I think, my dear Dolabella, you might have caused the poor Miss some distress," said Angharad mischievously.  
  
"Oh bugger the chit!" Dolabella replied saucily. "Mayhap that will teach the little goose not to eavesdrop in conversations not meant for her ears, or ones that she is too unsophisticated to understand."  
  
"You are absolutely unmerciful, my dear Dolabella."  
  
"That, my sweet Angharad, is because I can be." Tapping the fan lightly against her cheek, she added, "It is amazing when wealth and beauty allows one to flout the rules, is it not?"  
  
Elizabeth Bennett, now Elizabeth Darcy, gripped her husband's arm tighter as they made their way into the sacred precincts of Almack's. Her mother and sisters would be proud, if they could only see her entering a place that was as mythical as Avalon.  
  
Fitzwilliam Darcy, was not as impressed, having known the inside of Almack's for most of his adult life. The mingled scents of vinaigrettes, flowers and perfumes made the air inside the drawing room even more stifling. He did not want to be here, but also knew that he needed to be here, with his beautiful wife on his arm. There were some who needed to be shown that Darcy would not allow his new wife, in spite of her background, which was not as mean as rumour would have it, to be bullied by a bunch of stodgy-faced matrons in muslin caps.  
  
"What is that creature doing here?" demanded one outraged lady of quality. "It appears that Mr. Darcy has obviously lost all common sense."  
  
"Oh look," and Dolabella's fan pointed towards Darcy and Elizabeth. "There they are. Poor thing, she looks rather overwhelmed by it all. I feel as if I should have given her better instruction."  
  
Elizabeth's face lit up in recognition. Out of all those she had met in this first Season, only Lady Clarendon and Lady Hawthorne had taken a genuine like to her, and the feelings were mutual.  
  
Dolabella rose, embracing Elizabeth warmly, ignoring the gasps of shock and dismay that emerged from some quarters of the assembly rooms. "My dearest Lizzie, I must know the name of your modiste for you are looking positively ravishing. And I believed myself to be the only Incomparable present," she teased.  
  
Elizabeth's gown was striking in its simplicity, having no wish to call more attention to herself than was necessary. The blue organdy gown gathered decorously at the bodice, with puffed sleeves edged in Valenciennes lace, and fell to a graceful shower to the floor. Matching kid gloves and reticule completed the toilette.  
  
Angharad turned her attentions towards Darcy, who had been a close friend since childhood. "Dear Fitzwilliam, I do believe that married life suits you rather well. My lord Christopher deeply sends his regrets that he could not be here to offer his felicitations, but you know how it is with family."  
  
Darcy turned an elegant leg, then took Lady Clarendon's hand in his, bestowing a chaste kiss upon the gloved fingers. "I am in your debt, Vicountess, for taking my darling wife into your bosom of friendship."  
  
"At last, a friendly face in this crush," Elizabeth remarked with noticeable relief. "I felt like Caesar surrounded by assassins. I actually wanted to ask, 'et tu, brute'?"  
  
Dolabella tapped Elizabeth lightly with the tip of her fan. "My dear, I would not allow any of these fools to disconcert you. As I remarked to Angharad earlier, very few of those in attendance are able to trace their families as far back as William's arrival at Hastings."  
  
"Since when has Almack's allowed the likes of commoners to grace its sacred halls?"  
  
The quartet looked straight into the flashing brown eyes of Lady Bradford, a rather skeletal matron with an unnatural shade of black hair obviously due to overuse of dye powders obtained through the apothecary. The practise of damping down one's chemise in order to achieve an appearance of au naturel should have been strictly confined to fashionable women such as the Marchioness and the Viscountess, but it seemed that someone neglected to inform the acid-tongued Lady Bradford. "I thought the day would never come when those of the merchant stamp would be welcome amongst quality."  
  
Darcy was poised for a scathing dressing down, and was halted by his wife's reassuring hand upon his arm. Elizabeth drew herself up haughtily and addressed the offending Lady Bradford. "As I once made quite clear to Lady Catherine, an acquaintance of yours, is she not, I am the daughter of a gentleman, as well as the daughter of a gentlewoman, and therefore, I have as much right to be here as yourself."  
  
Angharad turned an amused eye on Dolabella, who could not keep the smile from her perfect lips.  
  
"I would go so far as to proclaim those of the supposed 'merchant class' have far better manners than many in the ton," Dolabella added maliciously. "May I highly suggest that if you not have anything kind to say in regards to Mrs. Darcy," and she made a point to place such emphasis upon Elizabeth's new title, "Then do us all a courtesy by remaining silent!"  
  
Lady Bradford blanched. "I will not be addressed in such a high- handed fashion, even by you, Lady Hawthorne. I will speak my mind, whether you like it or no. That woman," and a pudgy finger pointed directly at Elizabeth, whose own eyes flashed fire, "That woman does not belong here. Darcy should have married someone in his class, like that sweet little Anne de Burgh. Even one of my own daughters would have suited him far better."  
  
Darcy's tone was icy to the point of rudeness. "Beg pardon, Lady Bradford, but my choice in a wife is really none of your affair. Even if she had been an Incognita, that would have suited me far better than one of those prune-faced terriers you have the unmitigated gall to have named Prudence, Temperance and Chastity."  
  
Everyone within five feet had heard the scathing set down, and others would learn about it within minutes. Many cheered silently, finding Lady Bradford's outburst far exceeding the bounds of good taste. After all, she was merely the wife of a baronet. It would not do to offend either Viscountess Clarendon or the Marchioness of Hawthorne.  
  
Lady Bradford grew apoplectic, her gaunt cheeks red with anger. "This is all your doing, Viscountess. The fact that you took such a one as her into your confidence, though you continuously cut my daughters is shameful indeed. I know that you and your coterie encourage such scandalous liaisons. Mark my words, Lady Clarendon, this will be the end of civilized society!" With that dire prediction ringing in their ears, Lady Bradford snatched up her voluminous skirts and went storming away.  
  
Dolabella merely shook her head in disgust. "Beatrice Langley was quite right, you know? The woman is an incredible bitch."  
  
Laughter erupted within the small circle when the deep masculine voice of Crispin Tylgerth, Lord Hawthorne asked with knowing amusement, "My darling Dolabella, what have mischief have you been about this night?"  
  
Dolabella pretended to be hurt, lowering her eyes in mock innocence. "I have been a veritable angel, my lord. I was merely defending Mrs. Darcy from that vituperative harpy, Lady Bradford."  
  
Crispin greeted both Darcy and Elizabeth heartily. "I hear it bandied about the Card Rooms that our Mrs. Darcy defended herself rather well. Dash it, one of a handful of interesting evenings spent in this marriage bazaar and I had to be engaged elsewhere."  
  
"All on that magic list depends:  
Fame, fortune, fashion, lovers, friends;  
'Tis that which gratifies or vexes  
All ranks, all ages, all sexes  
If once to Almack's you belong,  
Like monarchs, you can do no wrong;  
But banished thence on Wednesday night,  
By Jove you can do nothing right."  
'Letter to Julia' by Luttrell 


End file.
